May Eve
by Solstice4
Summary: The night before the Day of Death and Rebirth. What do the islanders feel and do on this night of all nights? How does His Lordship feel about what he must do? What will lead them through May Eve?
1. Chapter 1: The Laird and the Lady

**_For Christopher Lee, my Lord Summerisle . . . "A heathen, conceivably, but not, I hope, an unenlightened one."_****  
**

**The Wicker Man  
**

**May Eve**

**_This story, "May Eve", is based on the extended, 102-minute cut of "The Wicker Man", which is the best available in the United States. It examines May Eve, the night before the Day of Death and Rebirth, the thoughts and feelings of some of the islanders, how they spend this strange evening, and the struggle of emotion experienced by the island's leader as he prepares to pass the point of no return. Everything takes place between the scenes on May Eve, except for the epilog, which takes place some number of weeks afterward. All the characters herein were created by Robin Hardy and the late Anthony Shaffer and are owned by whoever owns copyright to "The Wicker Man". This story and its situations were created by me, purely for my own enjoyment, with no interest in or expectation of compensation of any kind._**

**_I have made a few small additions: First of all, I have assigned Broome, Lord Summerisle's piper and houseman, the last name of Lennox, to Miss Rose I have given the surname of MacKinnon, an appropriate Hebridian name, and to the Librarian, tall and slender beauty, I have given the name of Iris._**

**_I also took the liberty of giving a first name, Bay, to Lord Summerisle. Many people on Summerisle are named after trees. The bay laurel tree is a very beautiful and useful tree, a steadfast friend to man, and its leaves, in the form of the laurel wreath, have crowed champions for centuries. Its Latin name is "Laurus nobilis". I thought it a very appropriate name for a strong character who must champion his people in a very difficult way._**

**Chapter One: The Laird and the Lady**

Lord Summerisle strolled back to the piano as the policeman's angry footsteps receded toward the front hall. He reseated himself at the keyboard and began to play again, knowing the music would follow the sergeant mockingly out. The great doors slammed shut with a hollow boom, and Lord Summerisle and Miss Rose winced in unison. Summerisle stopped playing as the echo of the slamming door died away . . . Miss Rose stopped keeping time with her goblet. Summerisle's hands lay idle on the keyboard of the piano, and he looked at Miss Rose with a grim smile. "There he goes, striding intrepidly out into the darkness."

Rose pushed her bright hair off her shoulders and raised her goblet to her lips again. "May it cool him off. That's a long chilly walk back to the village."

"Oh, he's well set for it. He's seething so badly he'll be halfway there before his ears have time to get cold." Summerisle closed the cover down over the piano keys and got up from the bench, standing with hands on hips and looking down at Rose. She held out her free hand and he settled down crosslegged on the fur rug Rose was reclining on. He arranged his kilt properly, and propped his chin on his hand. "No more music, my lord?" she asked innocently.

"No. I'm tired of "The Tinker of Rye", although, it did set our sergeant on the boil, didn't it?" They laughed, but after a moment Summerisle sighed and looked down at his hands. "You know, leading the hunter is one thing, but it's wrong of us to tease him and laugh at him," he said softly. "This gift that he will give us . . . we should be carrying him on our shoulders back to the village. Both of us were at our pompous worst just now, and he deserves our compassion, not our derision." Rose reached over and took her lord's hand, a little ashamed of herself. He was right, as he had a way of being.

There was a tap on the library door, and they both looked up. "Yes?" said Summerisle. The door opened halfway and Broome, Lord Summerisle's houseman, stuck his head into the room. Broome paused for a moment, smiling at the sight of these two community leaders of mature years sitting on the floor and holding hands like teenagers. Then he said, "Pardon, m'Lord, Miss Rose, but I was just wondering if you'd be needing me any more tonight."

"No, that's all right, Broome. Are you heading down to the Green Man?"

"Aye, m'Lord, and will probably stay in the village tonight, with your leave."

"Of course, Broome. It's the eve of our greatest May Day. Enjoy yourself."

Broome touched his forehead and started to close the door, then hesitated. "By your leave, Miss Rose," he said, "It's lovely to see you back again." He glanced at Summerisle, and said with a twinkle, "Isn't it, Your Lordship?"

His Lordship gave Broome a long, level look. "Yes," he said forbiddingly. "Have a lovely night, Broome." The houseman flashed Miss Rose his pretty smile, and she blew him a kiss. Then Broome closed the door behind him. Rose and Summerisle looked at each other and Summerisle pursed his lips. Rose laughed and patted Summerisle's knee. "He loves you, my dear. He doesn't like to see you alone."

"Yes, yes. I know."

Rose looked down, drew a spiral pattern with her forefinger in the fur of the rug. "It's not so late, my lord, but suddenly I feel a little sleepy. It must be the excellent wine." She lowered her eyelids at him over the top of her goblet.

Summerisle reached over, took the goblet from her, and set it decisively on the floor. Then, moving with a startling quickness usually masked by a deceptively lazy manner, he slid his hand into her hair and pulled her face to his, kissed her long and thoroughly, and then sat back again with a smug smile. "There," he said. "Sleepy, my foot."

He got to his feet and offered Rose his hand. She took it and he pulled her up. Before she could steady herself, Summerisle had seized her up in his arms and had gone for her neck with his teeth. "Now damn it, don't bite," she said, wriggling. "You know it gives me the very gooseflesh when you do that."

He laughed down at her. "Why?"

"I don't know. It just does." She looked him in the eye and brushed her blonde bangs back into place.

"All right, all right. How about this then?" He slid his arm down under her bottom, scooped her up bodily, and started towards the stairs with her. She let her head drop against his shoulder and sighed, pretending to be exasperated. "My dear, you can't possibly carry me up the staircase like this," she said, even though she knew he was perfectly capable of doing so if he wanted to.

"Shall I toss you like a caber?"

She laughed. "Beast. I'll toss your caber for you."

At the foot of the staircase Summerisle stood her on her feet, laughing and slightly breathless. "God, I hope so," he said, grinning rather wolfishly.

Rose blinked up at her lord, wanting to laugh with him, and wanting to make sure it was all right. "Why this sudden jolly turn?"

He blinked right back. "Can I not find cheer in the company of my lovely lady?" he asked, trying on innocence like a new hat that didn't fit quite right. He took her hand and they started up the stairs, and after a moment she slipped an arm companionably around his waist.

At the top of the stairs he scooped her up again, ignoring her laughing protest. "Are you in a hurry, by any chance?" she asked. "Why would I be in a hurry?" he said with a dangerous smile. "It's only May Eve. How else should we celebrate?" He carried her easily, not to his own grand bedchamber, but to a smaller, warmer bedchamber that she had always liked better. It was done in greens and a little brown, and the pretty white-trimmed hearth was already burning nicely. "Dear Broome, he thinks of everything," Summerisle said, pleased. He stood Rose on her feet before the fire, and they exchanged a long embrace. "I missed you," she said softly. He smiled at her in the dim light and very gently pinched her cheek. She reached up to undo the square silver buttons of his black Montrose doublet and untie the lace jabot at his throat. She helped him off with the tight sleeves of the traditional garment, which he hung on the back of a chair along with the heavy kilt belt. Summerisle sighed and rubbed his neck when Rose undid the first few buttons of his shirt. "Beastly collar," he said. Then, "How have I managed for these few weeks without you?"

Rose smiled mysteriously at her lord. "I can't imagine," she said archly, and ensconced herself on the bed. She lay with one arm on the pillow above her head, a feast laid out just for him. "Here comes a candle to light you to bed," she said to him, and he laughed and finished the couplet. "Here comes a chopper to chop off your head!"

Summerisle stretched out on the bed beside Rose and put a hand over his eyes, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. After a moment he rolled over onto his elbow and looked down at Rose in the firelight, his hair falling over his forehead, looking both younger and older than his years. In the hesitant light she noticed shadows under his eyes; she knew he had not been sleeping well of late. This dangerous thing they were planning, it had been preying on the minds of their inner circle for a long time, but Summerisle as their leader had struggled with it most of all. A knot popped in the fireplace; he turned his head toward it for a second, and Rose felt a sudden chill as she saw the flames reflected in his eyes. To distract him she slid her hands under his shirt, running her nails lightly up his ribs. He drew in a sharp breath, and Rose felt with satisfaction that after all their years together she still had the power to make him shiver. Summerisle glanced over at the fireplace again, though, as if seeing the morrow and what needed to be done on the morrow in its softer flames.

"Stop looking at the fire, and look at me. It's May Eve, my lord," Rose whispered, and pulled him down to kiss him. He very deliberately unbuttoned each button of her blue caftan, and leaned down to gather her in his arms and kiss the hollow of her throat and along her jaw before finding her mouth again. His hands wandered over her, knowing from their long experience of her exactly where to go, and her blood began to sing the familiar song it always did for him and no one else, tonight a May Eve hymn. But then . . . Curse it, she thought. Now he's got methinking of it, and of that man who will save us. So by the goddess of the orchard, let us make the magic together tonight to make sure of it. By force she put it out of her conscious mind, anxious for a moment that her body would obey her worry and not her will. But her lord's hands were strong and sure, and his eyes were dark and deep, and for now, all that mattered was the flood tide of May Eve rising to engulf them both.


	2. Chapter 2: After The Siren Sang

**After the Siren Sang**

Willow MacGregor, probably the most desired woman on Summerisle, lay alone in her bed on May Eve, covered only with one of her prettiest lacy sheets, a-tremble with frustration and anger. "I knew it was a bloody test," she thought. "It wasn't _supposed_ to succeed." She thought of the pretty blonde police sergeant, probably lying as wakeful in his bed on the other side of the wall as she was in hers, and wanted to march right into his room and slap him. She knew that the laird wouldn't have asked her to dance the come-hither magic if he hadn't had complete confidence in her ability to walk the line between too much success and not enough failure, but still. It had drained her to the point of exhaustion with nothing to show for it. _Damn!_ She lay listening to the music and laughter coming up the stairs from the pub, glanced at the friendly face of her little clock, and saw that there was a couple of hours before lock-up. There was still plenty of time to find someone to sweeten this angry bed of hers and celebrate May Eve with, but there was also a great temptation to just lie still and feel sorry for herself.

A tap came on Willow's door and she said, "Yes, come in." She sat up, bare to the waist, her glorious golden hair spilling over her shoulders. Even now she was hoping in spite of herself to see their anointed guest. Instead, her father's quizzical face introduced itself around the doorjamb. "Safe to come in, lamb?" he asked.

She sighed and pulled up the sheet. "Of course, Da." He came in and shut the door behind him. "Keep yer voice down," he said softly. "I suspect yon policeman has got ears like a bat."

"Humph," she muttered. "Yon policeman." And suddenly she was crying, angry sobs that she muffled with her pillow. Alder MacGregor rolled his eyes and set his pint down on her little night table with a thump. "Och, lass," he said, putting his arm around his daughter. "It's all that power with nowhere to go that's upsetting you. Come downstairs and work some of it off. May Eve is no time to be weeping, for the god's sake. I know! Broome Lennox from the manor just came in a bit ago, ready for some fun. What would you say to him?"

"Humph," Willow said again, grumpy now. "Why would I want to settle for the laird's man when I've had the laird himself?"

Alder set his daughter back and looked at her, surprised. "When did _that_ happen, and why didn't you tell _me_? That's a feather in your cap, that is."

"Oh Da! For heaven's sake! Must I confide every tumble in the orchard?"

"Ha, with the laird I doubt very much it was just a tumble in the orchard." Willow shot sparks at him from her flaming blue eyes. Alder only laughed and gently chucked his daughter under her perfect chin. "Ah, well, all that lovely magic you were making, it rebounded on you, and now it's making you angry." Alder retrieved his pint from the night table and took a long pull. "It's also rebounding on the whole taproom downstairs, and there are lots of pink cheeks shining, and lots of meaningful looks shooting about down there. We can't let all that go to waste, now can we? Come on, lass, dry your tears, there's a good girl. Come downstairs and have a wee dram with us, and if the laird's man doesn't suit you, why, maybe the laird himself will show up by and by."

"Not he," said she. "Rose is up at the house tonight."

"Oh ho!" said MacGregor, who lived for gossip. He leaned closer and said conspiratorially, "Just he and she? The two of them back again, is it? I thought they had a little spot of trouble recently."

Willow began to answer, but they both paused, looking at the same time at the common wall that separated Willow's room from the guest's. They could both feel his curiosity - was he eavesdropping? Alder's eyebrow raised, and he glanced from the wall to Willow. She smiled, eyes narrowing, then continued as if nothing had happened, just a little louder.

"They had a bit of trouble at Equinox, but it was just lover's spatting. He can be terribly moody and she won't put up with it. They're over it all by now, you can be sure of that." Just a bit louder, she added, "I expect His Lordship probably has our schoolmistress flat on her back right now . . . or she him." She directed this last at the wall, and muffled a giggle with her hand. It was very obvious that everything about their beloved laird irked the priggish policeman no end, and after the way the copper had thwarted her magic, it was a pleasure to poke him.

"What do you think of that?"

Willow threw off her sheet and went to get her clothes. "Och, Da, nothing at all. Just an afternoon's play for us both, and pleasant it was." For the sergeant's benefit she cupped a hand to her mouth and added more loudly, "Our laird's a man who knows his way around a woman." Somehow she knew that would anger the eavesdropper most of all. Alder MacGregor laughed, and Willow continued, "But really, Da, he's too old for me. Rose is the one he'll always go back to. He's got a will of iron, does our laird, but she's got the spine of steel to match him and face him down when he needs it. And with the hard job of work that's ahead of him tomorrow, he needs her by him." Let the little sergeant chew on that. Hard job of work, indeed.

"I don't know why the laird doesn't just marry the woman and be done with it," Alder said, leaning against the corner of the wardrobe. "What a party that would be! There'd be naked folk in every hedgerow." Willow slapped a hand over her mouth to catch a bray of laughter, and elbowed her father. _Don't overdo it, Da!_

"Oh, I suspect they'll handfast yet", she said, "especially now that this year will be better. Neither of them are getting any younger, after all," Willow said, opening the wardrobe's door. "But I don't think she wants to live in the great house, though. She likes her own little cottage."

"Well, leave it to you to know what's in everyone's mind for a mile around." He chuckled, watching as the splendid young woman studied her clothes, standing naked as the day she was born, without a thought for her father's presence. "I wonder what our guest would think of you standing natural born naked in front of your own father. Broome Lennox says the man nearly had an apoplexy over nothing more than the wee kids dancing naked up at the stone circle - raised his voice to His Lordship and everything." He smiled, feeling the wave of indignation coming from the neighboring room, and knew their guest was certainly listening closely. Ears like a bat indeed!

Willow half turned in the act of pulling her blue sleeveless dress from the closet. "And why shouldn't you see me? You bathed my wee bottom when Mother went back to the earth and it was just you and me. You have more right to see me naked than any man on this island, and that includes the laird, the doctor, _and_ our blessed guest."

Alder smiled as Willow pulled that pretty blue dress over her head, smoothed it over her seal-curve hips and adjusted that perfect bosom, that needed no beastly brassiere. He liked that dress on her. He had bought it for her himself on a rare trip to Edinburgh. The flawless sapphire blue of the silk reflected in her eyes till they were so blue they could hurt your heart, and that reminded him of her mother. He finished off his pint and held up the dead soldier. "Come on, I feel the need for a pint," he said. "It's been a while since I had one."

Willow laughed as she ran a brush through her marvelous golden hair and slipped her feet into her dancing shoes. She went over to her father and put her arms around him. "Thank you, Da. I feel ever so much better now."

He smiled fondly at her. "That's my fine girl. Now, there's a taproom full of twinkling eyes waiting for you to brighten it a little."

"Well then, come on, Da", she said, her cerulean eyes now shining like a June sky, her blue funk thrown off like a threadbare cloak. "Let's go down and have some fun." She shot of look of fire at yonder bedroom wall. "Policemen . . . ha!"


	3. Chapter 3: In The Cool of the Evening

**In the Cool of the Evening**

_"Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,_

_Say, could that lad be I . . ._

_Merry of heart, he sailed on a day,_

_Over the sea to Skye . . ."_

May Morrison rocked and sang softly beside the open window, the soft breeze blowing the smells of apple blossom and the sea over her and her sleeping daughter. May looked worriedly down at her little girl, who lay curled against her ample bosom. "At least you're sleeping now, little sprite," May said softly.

Little Myrtle sighed and slipped deeper into sleep, and May gently stroked her fever-chapped cheek. Such a time of the year to have a bad cold, and probably a little hayfever as well. Mr. Lennox's wild-cherry-bark syrup had taken care of the nasty cough, but the temperature had not wanted to go down. It had started with a sore throat the day before, which was why the child had been at home drawing hares instead of being in school when the little sergeant had come round to call. Myrtle had been restless and scratchy for a couple of days, and had really gone down that afternoon. She had thrown a massive whinge at having to take the strong infusion of bitter willowbark for her fever, but a couple of spoonfuls of His Lordship's wonderful pear brandy had soothed Myrtle and let her go to sleep, and now she lay snug in her mother's arms in the creaking rocker.

May gazed out of the window, over the tops of the neighboring roofs and over the harbor. Her eye rested on the little blue and white seaplane anchored there, rocking gently in the evening breeze, and her humming stopped. What a day tomorrow would be, she thought. What an event. What a risk we take, and how worth it it will be. Her mind drifted back across the terrible winter, then farther back to the terrifying autumn. Autumn was usually such a marvelous time on Summerisle, full of feasting and festivals, abundance springing forth everywhere, the island

hip-deep in magnificent produce of every kind. Not last autumn, though. There had been almost no apples, and income had been very lean. For once the fisherfolk had done better than the farming folk. Even people's kitchen gardens had done poorly. A lot of food had had to be imported at a great cost. The island had always been prosperous, and there had been help for those who needed it. But if whatever disaster that had fallen on their crops fell again this year, there was no telling what would happen.

The inner circle that dispensed power on the island, Miss Rose and her two priestesses, Willow and Iris, the circle of elders, and of course the laird, had had their heads together for a long time, trying to figure out what was wrong and what to do about it. The laird had gone about pale and silent, poor darling, obviously wrestling in his heart with something very difficult. He had even gone to the mainland several times with the _Rose_, which was highly unusual. Then the proclamation at the Vernal Equinox about what would be happening on May Day, and after the initial astonishment had worn off, people began to take the idea and run with it.

May's heart swelled to think of it, both with pride that her daughter Rowan had been chosen to participate in the great hunt, and with certainty that they would be successful. Their island would burgeon again. There would be no hunger this winter, no sickness, and no worry that they would have to lose their laird to the Wicker Man. The very thought of _that_ made May feel ill. The islanders of Summerisle loved their laird fiercely and were very protective of him, because they knew he felt the same way about them. Although she knew that if it ever came to such a terrible pass, he would walk straight and steady into the Man's arms, she could hardly bear to think of such a thing.

May both revered and feared the Man, like everyone else on the island, and the thought of climbing up the steps into his belly made her catch her breath with fright, as it would any sane person. She clamped down on the fear that came into her heart at the thought of what would happen to that handsome young police sergeant tomorrow. But to think, that his soul should fly with the Lord Nuada . . .

May sighed, and shook her head to clear it of such thoughts. Then she smiled to hear laughter and running feet in the street below. Informal May Eve festivities were in full swing - the blossoming of spring in the air brought out the urge to run, to laugh, to catch and possess, in all the young people. Not so many years ago she had run in the street and into the field beyond as well, and her beautiful Rowan had been the result of one May Eve's chase through the sweet orchards. May sometimes pitied the people of the mainland, which seemed like another world to her. Those people seemed to have no love, no warmth. They certainly did not run and laugh on May Eve. They did not give and receive plentiful hugs and kisses from friend and family, and seemed so cold and distant, even from those they loved. They lived in fear of their bizarre dead god, and there were strangers all around them. On Summerisle, there was no such thing as a stranger.

There came a knock on the street door downstairs, and a call. "May! Oh May, are ye to home?"

She stuck her head out the window and saw Iris, one of Miss Rose's two priestess acolytes, standing in the street along with one of the young men that worked on the _Rose of Summerisle_, Dolph, short for Dolphin, she thought his name was, an older man whose face she couldn't make out, and Periwinkle, one of the elderly ladies who spent most of their time gossiping in the island beauty shop. "Just a minute!" May said out the window. "I was rocking Myrtle . . . let me lay her down." She got up from the chair, grunting a little with her daughter's sleeping weight in her arms, and laid her on her little bed. The child's cheeks did seem cooler now. Sleep was the great healer. May covered Myrtle with her blankets and closed the window, and hurried down the stairs to open the door.

Iris and friends stepped inside. "May!" Iris said. "Let Periwinkle stay here and watch the little girl for you, and you go and enjoy yourself. Here's our man of the bread to squire you, and me and Dolph to see you don't get yourselves into a lot of trouble!" May did see then that the man whose face she couldn't make out was Birch Lovat, who ran the bakery. "Why Birch!" she cried, suddenly feeling merrier than she had in days. "I didn't know you cared!"

The baker grinned and sketched her a little bow. "Well now you do! And lucky I am, to be squiring the mother of the Queen of the May and the handsomest woman in Summerisle!"

May laughed as she retrieved her sweater and touched her hair. "Flattery gets you everywhere, Birch. Are you sure you'll be all right with Myrtle, Peri?"

The elderly lady laughed too. "Yes! You know how many of my own little ones I've raised. I know how to dose perfectly well, and probably won't have to. She'll have naught but a scratchy throat in the morning. Now, my days of running in the orchard are over, but I can do my part to make sure the orchard still gets run in! Go! Go on and show these young ones what May Eve is all about!"

May hugged Peri and let herself be swept out her own door. Iris and Dolph were already running ahead, their eyes full of the wildness of the spring night, the tall, beautiful blonde librarian laughing over her shoulder at the handsome young sailor. They turned to wave at the older couple and disappeared around the corner, and Birch and May both heard laughter floating behind them. They smiled at each other.

"Well, May darling, it's just us old folks then," Birch smiled, offering his arm. She took it and they walked off down the street.

"Speak for yourself!" May laughed. "Where shall we go? I've become a bit too . . .dignified . . . over time to be romping in the orchard."

Birch sighed. "It's hell to get old, isn't it?" He laughed and ducked as she aimed a mock swat at him. "How about a nice pint down to Alder's, and we'll take it from there?"

May smiled up at her escort, wondering what it might be like to be married to him. He was a widower and she had never married, always running her own business and raising her girls. Hmm, if he was interested, well, perhaps it was worth thinking about. "That sounds lovely, although you'll forgive me if I have white wine instead of a pint."

Birch shook his head. "Suit yourself, although the tastes of women baffle me. White wine! Brr!"

They passed an little side alley that led into someone's lovely green courtyard, and saw that they had caught up with the librarian and her seafaring partner . . . they were standing in the shadows there, twined up in each other's arms and kissing passionately. Birch and May both smiled and kept walking. "Ah, May Eve," he sighed. "Magic's everywhere."

May squeezed Birch's arm. "Well, maybe we'll see if we can make some too," she said with what she hoped was a promising smile.

"May!" Birch looked down at her with genuine pleasure and surprise. "What a lovely thing to say," he said. "I really hadn't dared to hope."

Suddenly May felt full of life, buoyed by the splendid spring evening, and laughed delightedly. "Hope springs eternal, my dear!" she said. "Come on, you can buy me that pint after all."

Back at May's home, Myrtle had awakened and cried for her mother, but Peri, who Myrtle knew well, soothed her and made her some hot milk and honey. Peri sat in the rocking chair while Myrtle sat in her lap and sipped the warm milk. The child said, "Mummy was singing about "over the sea to Skye" to me. Do you know that song?"

"Why yes I do, Miss Myrtle. That song was very old when I was a little girl like you are now. There, finish your milk, and I'll sing it." Peri too could see the seaplane from this window, and shivered just a little for the cold chill in her heart. She pulled a blanket around the little girl and began to rock and sing.

_"Billow and breeze,_

_Island and seas,_

_Mountains of rain and sun,_

_All that was good,_

_All that was fair,_

_All that was me is gone . . ._

_Sing me a song of a lad that is gone_

_Say could that lad be I_

_Merry of heart, he sailed on a day,_

_Over the sea to Skye . . ._"


	4. Chapter 4: In The Turning of the Night

**In The Turning of the Night**

Rose slipped noiselessly down the stairs, a tartan rug wrapped around her shoulders. A thin gown was fine in a soft bed with a warm man, but even in summer, this great house was chilly at night. She found her way through the dark house and into the library by memory and moonlight, and saw her lord sitting in his great leather chair, long legs stretched toward the fire and ankles crossed. A brandy snifter hung neglected in one hand. She crossed the room to him silently, bare feet whispering across parquet and carpet.

"My lord," Rose whispered, kneeling beside the great chair. He seemed not to hear her, seemed lost in some mental landscape where she could not join him. She frowned a little, laid a hand on his forearm. She leaned closer. "Bay," she said in his ear.

Summerisle jumped a little, looking around at her, and the brandy snifter in his hand slipped. She caught it before it could fall and put it down gently on the floor. He smiled fondly at her. "You're the only one who calls me that," he said.

"If anyone should be able to call you by your name, it'd be me, I'd suppose," she said with a little asperity.

"I'd suppose," he said, and smiled at her again, a tired smile that hurt her heart a little. He extended his hand to her, and she took it. He drew her onto his lap and she leaned against him. "Having trouble sleeping?" he asked softly.

"I could ask the same of you," she replied gently, twisting a bit to look down at him. "The Old Ones know, neither of us _should _be having trouble sleeping at the moment. "

Summerisle chuckled a little. "No." His arm tightened around her waist and he leaned his head against her side. "I've been doing a lot of praying, Rose."

She felt tears sting her eyes. "I know you have".

The firelight flickered over his face as he stared without blinking into the flames. "I've listened for the gods in my heart. Over this whole terrible year, I've listened like I've never listened before. And what I've heard is, _"Our people suffered in the winter cold, and where were you? We've given you everything, and where are you now? Your people are the only ones who still love us. You are their father: give us power, that we may bless them again."_ Then I think of that innocent man down there in his room at the Green Man. I know he has a life and loved ones, colleagues who will hunt for him - we must be very careful there - and a woman promised, who will grieve when he is lost. He's mightily connected to this life of his as he's built it. Powerful as she is, our Willow could not budge him."

Rose's jaw tightened. "You felt it, then?"

"I felt the magic spiral up and die down again, unfulfilled. I can feel Willow's weariness even now. He's passed her test. And because he has, he will die to save the lives of people he does not know, never understanding anything but his own terror. Can it be right, that one man should die to save many? But . . . another winter like the last one, and _our _people will start to die." His voice caught and he fell silent.

Rose's arm tightened around his shoulders, feeling the coldness of the flesh under his silk dressing gown. She tugged her blanket around to share its warmth with him. "He would do the same to us, and never think twice," she said softly. "If it were still the time of the hunting, he would be first to throw his torch at the foot of our stake."

She felt more than saw his frown. "But it's not that time anymore. He is the one we need, and while both his blindness and his arrogance are considerable, they are not the issue."

Rose couldn't help but smile. "He _is_ an arrogant fellow, isn't he? Marching in here, flinging his dead hare about, shouting at a peer of the realm. The little prat."

Summerisle said nothing, and Rose raised an eyebrow. "He made you angry when he shouted at you. I saw the thunder in your face."

Summerisle shifted Rose into a more comfortable position on his legs. "He did set a match to my temper, I do admit. He despises us, and that adds to my trouble. Am I pursuing this to the bitter end because now that I've met him face to face, I don't like him? If he had turned out to be my heart's brother instead of that little prat you mentioned, would I end it differently? By the gods, I hope not. I hope my resolve is stronger than that." He rubbed along the side of his face with one hand.

Rose ran her hand through Summerisle's hair, noticing with a little sadness the many silver strands that had begun to encroach there. She remembered him as a teenager, all long legs and elbows and great dark eyes, coming to her arms in the first flush of manhood. How could she have imagined then that she would still be beside him when his hair was sown through with gray. She began to massage the back of his neck, feeling his tension. "You must stop going round and round with yourself like this. You do not stray once you've set a course. Your will has never bent once, all this cold, hard year, or in all the years I've known you. You will do what you have to, to save all our lives, even if it breaks your heart."

Summerisle laughed, a silent, bitter breath. "If I'm also doing it to save my own life, does that make it any less noble?"

Rose sighed. "That's not going to happen and you know it. Now stop it, or you're going to have me crying."

"But if it did?"

She took his face in both her hands and made him look up into her eyes. "If it did, I would go to the Wicker Man with you." His eyes widened and he started to speak. She pressed light fingers to his lips and said, "Shh. That's no idle promise, for without you, there would be nothing in this world to keep me. Now for the god's sake, don't think any more about such things." Summerisle slid both arms around Rose and held her tightly, and they were quiet for long minutes, both digesting the import of what she had just said.

Finally, Summerisle said, "If I _don't_ think about that, I'm thinking about our man. He doesn't deserve the suffering he will endure before the gods take him. The intolerant, intractable nature of his faith blinds him to his approaching fate, luckily for us, but he _is_ intelligent. He's following every clue and putting everything together that we've given him. He has great power - what a priest he could have made for Avellunau! And by the gods, he resisted our Willow, and I don't know of any man on this island who's ever done that before, once she cast her eye upon him."

Rose chuckled. "Neither do I," she said, looking wisely down at him. He looked at her in a startled way, then pinched her knee gently. She squeezed his shoulders a little, pleased to have turned his dark train of thought, and also to have caught him out. He had the grace to look a little embarrassed, as if a secret of any kind could be kept in their community for long. A dalliance or two or three meant nothing to Rose one way or the other. It was the nature of men and women to attract each other, but her lord always came back to her.

Summerisle retrieved his brandy from the floor and offered it to Rose, who sipped, then swallowed the remaining bit himself. He looked into the shifting shadows of the fire and said softly, "This little policeman is like a river backed up to bursting behind the unbreachable dam of his faith. When his life springs forth beyond the bonds he labors in now, and that dam breaks, the power that is unleashed will wash over this island in a great flood. I know it will. I know our island will burgeon again. I know he will be accepted. I've foreseen it." There was the soft surety of prophecy in his voice, and Rose felt a chill go up her spine. That her lord had the prophetic gift was certain - she had seen it at work before. She was always amazed by people who called it a blessing. "I just don't know that my resolve will hold to bring this thing to accomplishment," Summerisle continued softly. "How I wish the oracles could have foretold a better way."

Rose sat very still on her lord's lap, stroking his hair and thinking. So many different levels to this man and to their life together. Her lover, her friend, her teacher and her student, her high priest, and the laird of her home. He valued her opinion and sought out her advice. He had made her Lady Summerisle in everything but name, and someday before long they would get round to that. Whatever happened tomorrow, whatever they gained and whatever it cost, she would be beside him. She shifted herself to put her arms around him, and squeezed tight. "I will be there with you. I will give you everything I have, not because you are the high priest or my laird, Bay, but because I love you with all my heart. I have loved you since we were children. You know that."

Summerisle hid his face in her neck. "I know it, my darling Rose," he whispered, his voice just a little unsteady. "This will be the hardest thing I have ever done. If I have your strength beside me, I can do this thing and my determination will not flag. Just stay close to me, up on that headland tomorrow."

Rose rested her cheek on the top of her lord's head. "I will. I promise I will. But you must remember too, that the people must not see or feel one shadow of doubt or fear. They have come to believe that this one life will save and nurture many others, and I too unswervingly believe this to be so. But one doubt from you, and they will see it. You must be relentless, because if there is one chink in this armor of magic we build tomorrow, it will all collapse. You know this to be true."

He squeezed her hands. "I know it."

Rose took his face in her hands again, and looked hard into his eyes. "Tomorrow you cannot be Bay, the genial friend who comes to the Green Man and sits in the taproom drinking MacGregor's ale with the doctor and the schoolmaster. You cannot be the smiling laird that the children surround and hang from when they see him in the high street. You may pretend outwardly to be that man tomorrow, but inwardly you must be Lord Summerisle, the leader and father and High Priest of everyone on this island of ours, and you cannot let your heart soften your will. He must die that we may continue to live." Her blue eyes stared down into his dark ones, and for a moment it was unclear who was master.

Then in the last of the firelight she saw something come into his eyes that she had seen before, and she shivered a little. She had experienced his lightning mood changes for years and had never gotten entirely used to them. Summerisle stood her up and quickly rose from his chair, not flinching even though his legs had to be full of pins and needles. He towered over her, looking down at her with eyes suddenly black and fathomless, his hands grasping her shoulders tightly enough to be painful. "Gently, Johnny," she whispered. "Try not to hurt me." He said nothing, but lifted her by the shoulders and took her mouth, not hurting but close to it, not giving but demanding. Rose knew he would die before he would hurt her deliberately, but nevertheless she would be bruised tomorrow. A rush of fear and desire came over her. She knew her warm and kindly lover was gone for a while. He had taken her advice, and her warning, to heart, as he always did. Before her now stood a being of fearsome power whose will, once set in motion, would not, could not stop, till the day was done and the task accomplished. And she was the one who had deliberately awakened him.

Another day's time would see the end of this, but for now he must shield his heart, from everything, even from her, or he would be destroyed by this dreadful task that lay before him as surely as their anointed guest would be. She would pay any price to keep that from happening. A little sadness came into her heart, and she wished for him to look at her with love again, not in this cold and commanding way. This was the one part of him she could not share in, but only give to as charged by her lord. People thought that it was just His Lordship and Miss Rose spatting when this happened, or when she chose to stay away from him for occasional periods of time. She would not do that tonight, though it would cost both of them. The island people thought they knew their laird and his lady, but they did not know everything.


	5. Chapter 5: Epilog Another Sunset

**The Setting of Another Sun**

_PC Hugh McTaggert stood on the quay in Portlochlie harbor, gazing to the west. He was a tall rangy man with dark curly hair, and a humourous face with laugh lines at the corners of the eyes. _

_But tonight he was not laughing. He walked out to the very end of the breakwater and gazed to the west again, long and long, waiting for the sun to set. _

According to the official report, Sgt. Neil Howie had never reached Summerisle. When it was determined that he was overdue, communication had been established with the single shortwave radio on Summerisle, in the business office of the laird of the principality. There had been much alarm, and aircraft and boats had been dispatched from the mainland, and even the notoriously standoffish island had lent its resources, searching all quarters for the missing sergeant.

It was a lookout in the crow's nest of the 3-masted schooner _Rose of Summerisle_ who first saw flotsam and raised the cry. The wreckage of Sgt. Howie's little seaplane had been found. Young strong men of Summerisle pulled for the wreckage in the schooner's rigid inflatable, and began to search through it. A large piece was winched to the surface, the schooner's diesel engines thundering as the power winch took up the slack and dragged up waterlogged debris which had been kept floating by trapped air. There was a lot of blood in the shattered cockpit, mingling with the seawater than ran through the broken instruments. It was photographed from numerous angles for the investigators, taking special note of the registration numbers, but there was no way to bring it to shore and the slender schooner was listing dangerously from its weight. So, it was cut loose to sink. The men of Summerisle threw a handful of coins overboard after it, and poured an entire bottle of good single malt whiskey into the sea. The sergeant's overnight bag was found floating, but no body was ever found. This spring the Gulf Stream waters that surrounded the island were especially warm, following an unexplained deviation in the last growing season, and in these balmy waters, sharks were not unknown. It was fortunate, in the official opinion of the Constabulary, that the sailors of Summerisle knew the waters around their island so well, the currents and the deeps and the underwater eddies. They were able to find the missing plane so quickly, it was said, that it was almost as if they knew where to look.

Although affianced, Sgt. Howie was a single man, and so PC McTaggert, as Sgt. Howie's second, together with the Chief Constable of the West Highland Constabulary himself, had gone first to the cottage of Howie's widowed mother. She had received their news first with disbelief and then tears, then with a straight-backed strength that McTaggert had no trouble recognizing. It had been she who led them to the home of Mary Bannock, and sat down with Mary and her mother to relate the terrible news.

Their Neil was gone, Mrs. Howie had told Mary gently, holding both her hands on the kitchen table. That little seaplane . . . they had found a defect of some sort in part of the ruination of the craft. At least, thank God, it must have been quick for him. There, poor bairn. Cry all you need to. Mary wailed on her mother's shoulder, and McTaggert used the telephone in the parlor to call for Doctor, who had come quickly enough with a shot for the distraught woman when he heard what had happened.

There had been quite the spate of activity then - investigation, a few recriminations, and a verdict: accidental death, lost at sea. After the investigations were finished, a matter of some weeks, there had been a magnificent memorial service at the Episcopal church Howie had belonged to. The service was attended by policemen from all over the Highlands. There had been a small stir among the churchgoers when a terribly elegant couple was ushered to the front, he very tall and slim in a magnificently tailored dark suit, and she a brilliant natural blonde in an utterly correct navy suit and tasteful, costly pearls. The only fault that the avidly watching locals might hope to find was that she wore no hat. The Chief Constable had gone and spoken to them, and reported back to his wife that it was none other than Lord Summerisle himself and his fiancee, Miss Rose MacKinnon, mistress of the island school. These two worthies gave their solemn and undivided attention to the long church service, although they participated in none of the prayers. Those who were sitting close enough during the service to see did not mistake the sheen of tears in His Lordship's dark eyes, nor the concerned glance and comforting squeeze of his hand by the blonde lady at his side. Afterward, it was explained to the priest and the Chief Constable that Lord Summerisle felt responsible for Sgt Howie's death, since he had been on his way to Summerisle when the accident occurred. And over nothing but a silly prank someone had played, as their Rowan was alive and well and would be in school with all the other girls when Miss Rose returned two days hence. A shame, such a great shame.

Afterward, as His Lordship stood speaking with the Chief Constable, Miss Rose stood with Sgt. Howie's mother and the group of ladies of the church who were assisting her. One of the ladies had commented on His Lordship's somber mein. Yes, Miss Rose had said candidly, His Lordship has been very upset. He feels responsible. He insisted on coming today . . . I do so hope that we haven't intruded upon your grief.

Not at all, Miss, Howie's mother had replied gently. His Lordship mustn't feel responsible. We're honored that you and His Lordship would take the time to come all the way here, and by sail too, to attend, when you'd never even met my son.

Oh, said Miss MacKinnon, turning her blue, blue eyes toward the approaching peer. With everything I've heard said of Sergeant Howie, I feel that I know him. His Lordship bowed over Mrs. Howie's hand, his face grave and pale. The peer inquired after the welfare of Sgt. Howie's fiancee. Upon being told that she had felt unable to attend and was resting at home in seclusion, the pain in His Lordship's eyes was obvious. I feel completely responsible, he said. Never, Your Lordship, said Mrs. Howie. My son was doing his duty. His Lordship seemed much moved by Mrs. Howie's quiet strength, and bent again to kiss her hand.

After the condolences were finished the elegant couple departed for their hired car, the chauffeur waiting to open the Bentley's door for them. Such a handsome pair, people said later. How well it speaks of His Lordship that he takes such responsibility for something so completely beyond his control. Such graceful folk . . . somehow, they looked as if they don't really belong in this world.

_Hugh gazed to the west, and gazed and gazed, waiting for the right moment. When the sun lowered almost to the unusually clear horizon, he drew himself up straight and saluted the sun three times._

_"He has flown with you now, my Lord Nuada, and understands the truth. Grant Neil eternal life among the host of his own god, who loves him. Clothe him in blossom and green. I have done what I have done, for love of those I love, and those I live separated from will now be safe again." Tears began to trace their way down McTaggert's cheeks. "Forgive me, Neil," he said softly. "It was the only way." And he tossed what he was carrying onto the sunset water, and turned away to walk home._

_Evening gulls clucked and mewed along the breakwater, or stood on the rocks and preened. A couple of them, riding low on the ripples like mallards, bobbed along, past a branch of apple blossom that floated on the gilded water._


End file.
